Chapter Twenty-Six
Logan
Alas, life isn’t all rainbows and mid-day sex sessions.
It’s moments like this where I remember Dr. Nina’s voice in my head:
Don’t weaponize what happened.
I don’t mean to minimize, but-
“Come on,” I say out loud. “You cannot possibly compare Harry Potter to Game of Thrones.”
Jess narrows her eyes over the rim of her wine glass, which is dangerously close to tipping.
“Fine,” she says. “GOT is more PG-13.”
I stare at her.
“Jess.”
“Okay, fine,” she amends. “R-rated. But they’re both fantasy. Both based on books. Both have… British accents.”
“Harry Potter is about wizards,” I say patiently. “Game of Thrones is about naked people.”
Her jaw drops.
“Of course, you focus on the nudity and not the political nuance,” she snaps. “Can I remind you that it ends with two queens surviving in a world of dicks and incest?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And one of them went crazy.”
“Don’t,” she warns sharply. “We do not bring up season eight. It doesn’t count.”
I take a sip of my beer.
“It aired,” I say.
“It was stupid and not based on a book,” she fires back.
“You know what?” I snap, throwing a hand up. “I cannot with you.”
I lean back into the couch and grab the remote again.
“The question still remains,” I say. “What do you want to watch?”
“Well,” Jess says thoughtfully, swirling the last of her wine, “considering the kids are with your dad…”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She rolls her eyes. “It means we don’t risk them walking in on bare asses.”
I snort. “They’ve seen you change.”
“That was an accident,” she says primly.
“So you want GOT.”
She shrugs, finishing her wine. “We can fool around when the characters do.”
I pause.
“You wanna watch porn instead?” I ask my interest peeked.
She smiles slowly. “I thought GOT was porn.”
I narrow my eyes, dragging my tongue across my upper teeth. “I cannot believe I asked my dad to take the boys so you could compare HBO to Pornhub.”
“He was happy to see them,” she says lightly.
I lean back, exhaling through my nose. “Yeah. He was.”
And that’s true.
I might’ve limited sleepovers when he moved in with Manuel. I didn’t love the idea at the time. I was… adjusting. Manuel, to his credit, has been surprisingly quiet about me and Jess. Especially for someone who once championed divorce like he did.
“How about this,” Jess says suddenly, setting her glass on the coffee table. “We look at resumes.”
“It’s date night,” I remind her.
“Fine,” she counters. “We look at resumes, then we go upstairs and fool around.”
I stare at her then sigh, hating that date night is being hijacked by work. But between Darren on leave, the day-to-day grind of running the company, and actually spending time as a family, there isn’t much extra space left in the calendar.
“Okay,” I say finally.
It takes us an hour. And at least four arguments.
You’d think hiring people to sit in a room and watch cameras would be easy.
It’s not.
Our clients trust us with their businesses. Their warehouses. Sometimes their entire livelihoods. One distracted employee, one bad judgment call, and that trust is gone.
By the time we narrow it down to three solid candidates, Jess is cross-legged on the couch, her new glasses sliding down her nose, completely in her element.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my shirts.
I suddenly can’t wait for the fool-around part of the evening.
This whole “journey to a better us,” as Jess so eloquently put it, has actually been going great.
We talk more now. Not just about schedules and clients and which kid refuses to wear clothes. Real talking.
We fight too. Actual fights.
Like the time last month when I asked for more details about what happened. We were out at dinner. And I just blurted it out, how was I supposed to know the waiter was right behind me when I uttered the phrase, tell me what happened when you fucked that guy.
In my defense, when I asked, I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I just… wanted to understand something that still sometimes claws at me when I least expect it.
She exploded.
Stormed out of the restaurant.
I followed her halfway down the block before she turned around, eyes blazing.
“Why would you embarrass me like that?” she demanded. “And why do you want to know after so long?”
“Because I still think about it,” I’d yelled back before asking her if we could please just go back to the car and drive home.
Later that night, after we’d both cooled down, we sat on the kitchen floor with takeout containers between us and talked about it.
I apologized. Thoroughly. For the timing. For blindsiding her. For letting my curiosity ruin what had, up until that point, been a lovely dinner.
She told me the details.
Reluctantly. Shamefully.
I’m not going to lie, her words stung.
But what I’d been imagining for so long wasn’t even close to the truth of it. The pictures in my head had been worse. Bigger. More romantic. More threatening.
The reality was smaller.
Messier.
Sad.
That night we went to bed quiet. Not quite angry. Just… processing.
It took me a while to let go of her words.
But I did.
I have.
“What are you thinking about?” Jess asks now, slipping off her glasses and shutting the laptop.
“Just happy,” I say.
She fake winces. “That was kind of corny.”
“Corny, huh?” I murmur, standing.
Before she can react, I toss her laptop aside and sling her over my shoulder.
She yelps, laughing, fists pounding lightly against my back. “Logan!”
“I’ll show you corny,” I say, carrying her toward the bedroom.
Jess
“Mrs. West, the shipment of new motion-activated cameras was delivered last night. There aren’t any visible issues, but I have Pete and David checking them individually.
And,” Cece adds, glancing at her tablet, “there’s currently a debate between Operations Foster and Surveillance Foster about who gets the new parking space labeled ‘Foster’ downstairs. ”
I wince.
“Let’s have Mr. West handle parking disputes,” I say smoothly. “And good job on the cameras.”
Cece nods, making a note.
It goes against everything in me to let her call me Mrs. West. But considering the last assistant I had ends up at my house on most Sundays for a barbecue, I’ve decided to let this particular boundary stand.
I don’t personally see anything wrong with socializing with employees outside of business hours but Logan doesn’t like it.
He’s never liked mixing business with pleasure. Which is why he’s still in his original office downstairs.
We tried sharing the one up here. It lasted two days. The solid walls turned out to be… problematic.
Mostly because Logan developed a habit of pressing me against them whenever the mood struck.
Which, to be fair, was often.
Not exactly productive.
And “corporate PDA” is frowned upon even when you’re married and own the company.
Cece clears her throat lightly, pulling me back to the present.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Mr. West asked if you’d like to join the 10 a.m. vendor call.”
I bite back a smile. “Vendor call” is code for coffee inside his locked office.
“Of course I will.”
Cece nods and slips out.
A message dings on my phone.
The family group chat.
We have several. One with his mom. One with his dad. One with just Darren, Simone, Logan, and me.
This one’s his dad.
River forgot his bear. I’ll drop it in your mailbox.
Before I can respond, Logan’s reply pops up.
Don’t. Bell and Ty will rip it apart. We’ll grab it next time.
I want to type that they won’t. But those two absolutely would rip it to shreds.
A second later, his dad’s response comes through.
K.
That’s it.
Just K.
I stare at the screen a moment longer than necessary. Things between Logan and his dad are still… neutral. Polite.
No warmth or tension. Just this steady, careful distance. I understand it. Doesn’t mean I like it.
For me, it took my parents making my wedding about themselves to finally cut the cord. It was clean and fast.
Logan’s version feels different.
I have a feeling his will be louder. Messier. He and his dad have been avoiding the real conversation for so long that when it finally happens, it’s going to blow up in their faces.
Or maybe it won’t.
Maybe it’ll just stay like this forever. They’re both kings of procrastination.
The new, improved me? I’m learning that not every explosion is mine to prevent.